


the years wore on and changed my heart

by terpsichorean



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, story telling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 03:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18307055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichorean/pseuds/terpsichorean
Summary: If James was to tell the story of himself and Francis, it might go a little like this.





	the years wore on and changed my heart

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by an interview in which Tobias Menzies said that the thing James is most proud of when he dies is his relationship with Francis. which got me thinking of James telling their story like he would any of his other stories and here we are. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> i apologize in advance for all of the different tenses in this fic. i hope it makes some kind of sense lol!
> 
> title from east by sleeping at last

 

If James was to tell the story of himself and Francis, it might go a little like this: 

They met for the first time at one of the Admiralty’s social engagements, toasting the return of James Clark Ross’ expedition to Antarctica. Francis had been, technically, one of the guests of honour, although James internally observed that was difficult to tell from the way Barrow continuously pontificated on Ross’s feats. James didn’t even see Francis until halfway through the evening when Ross finally managed to peel him away from where he was playing wall flower and drag him into conversation. 

“He was so uncomfortable, it was painful to look at him,” James would say, idly swirling the brandy in his glass, “even Sir James could get barely half a word out of him.” Here, James would cast a mischievous look at Francis, conveniently seated nearby James and his imaginary audience. Francis would glance back, his ever-expressive eyebrow betraying the nonchalance he was striving for.

“So we were standing there, Francis and I, while Sir James regaled us with the tale of how the great Captain Crozier had saved both  _ Erebus _ and  _ Terror _ from being crushed by an iceberg by the skin of his teeth, and poor Francis was getting redder and redder—” James would continue, leaning closer to his audience, who would lean in as well, breathless to hear the story. Francis would patiently ignore them, sipping his tea. He would be seemingly absorbed by the various scenes painted and displayed around the room and completely oblivious to the admiring glances James’ audience stole at him. Only James would notice the indulgent cast on Francis’ face and know that he had the entirety of his attention, even though Francis tried to hide it. 

Of course, James’ story was not entirely true. Or no—it was true. But it wasn’t entirely honest. 

Ross had indeed dragged Francis over to speak with James, and Francis had indeed looked uncomfortable, as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world—possibly all the way back in the Antarctic—than in that room. James was excited to speak to him, this incredible sailor that Sir James spoke of so highly, but he found himself immediately underwhelmed. Francis had a strong handshake, and he filled his dress uniform out finely, but he was impossible to engage in conversation. At least if the person who was trying to talk to him was James; he had no difficulties conversing with Ross, his expression tilting toward bashful whenever Ross complimented him in a way that James was unwillingly charmed by. But whenever Ross asked for James’ insight about part of their voyage or James offered a story of his own from his adventures out east, Francis’ gaze went flat. He would quickly become restless, fiddling with his half empty glass, his eyes on the floor or somewhere over James’ shoulder. Only to become animated again when Ross next spoke. 

James was unused to someone taking so clear a dislike to him. He found it impossible not to be bothered by it. 

James had eventually moved on to different conversational partners, people who were much more interested in his tales than Francis had been. Later, James had glanced around for him and couldn’t find him. He must have left early. 

James had ended the evening discomfited without a clear reason as to why. He resolved to call on Francis sometime soon; clearly, they had simply gotten off on the wrong foot. Something easily rectified over brandy and light conversation. 

Of course, James wasn’t to know that Francis was to propose to Miss Cracroft the next day, a proposal that was to meet the same fate as the first. James wouldn’t see Francis again until they meet in Greenhithe preparing for their voyage into the unknown. 

 

\---------

 

James had endeavoured to create a better impression on their next meeting and failed utterly. If anything, Francis was more withdrawn now than before, bearing some new deep-set misery scarcely hidden beneath resigned stoicism. He seemed especially reticent around Sir John, something James could not understand at the time considering how often he had heard of their friendship in Van Diemen’s Land and how much Sir John himself seemed distressed by the distance. 

It annoyed James, to see Francis’ melancholy depress Sir John’s spirits. It annoyed James to speak to Francis, attempting to be conciliatory and friendly, invite him in on James’ jokes, and be met with coldness and barely hidden derision. It annoyed James that this derision made the soft parts of himself, hidden away in a dark vault deep within until James could sometimes almost forget they existed, tremble in insecurity and shame. 

In short, James was annoyed by everything about Francis. The feeling was more than mutual. 

James quickly found himself dreading every meeting with Francis and was swamped with a mixed feeling of relief and anger everytime Francis made himself absent: relief because he would not have to deal with Francis, and anger on Sir John’s behalf. These feelings only grew during their winter sojourn on Beechey Island. Francis was ever more present in the close quarters they kept there and James could go barely half a day without seeing him: avoiding everyone’s eyes at meals, drinking far too large measures of whiskey, speaking with a ship’s boy with a fatherly palm on the lad’s shoulders, talking with Blanky in the distance, their laughter audible even from afar. 

“In retrospect, I can see I quite desired your friendship,” James would say to Francis now, here in his imaginary drawing room. He could perfectly imagine the gobsmacked look on Francis’ face. 

“For God’s sake, why?” 

There were many reasons, most of them selfish: Francis was reputed as a great sailor, even by Sir John in that last awful argument they’d had that James could not help but overhear; Francis was a good friend of James Ross, and could help make a friendship between him and James; James might be able to levy their friendship to get postings on subsequent polar expeditions and further his ascendency in the Navy. 

But the core reason was one he would not readily admit to. 

“I wasn’t accustomed to being disliked,” James would say quietly, just between the two of them, “I found I couldn’t quite bear it.” 

Francis’ eyes would turn tender, his smile soft. “You’re daft, to want the friendship of someone like me.” His eyebrow would lift mischievously. “Should have asked Blanky first, he would have told you to run in the other direction.” 

And James would laugh, laugh in honest enjoyment, and marvel at how far they had come. 

Of course, James would tell his audience none of their struggles, not really. His listeners would receive the gilded version, as they always did; one stripped of all base emotions such as anger and resentment and including only great deeds and wry, comedic asides. 

“I must admit, I found Francis an interminerable bore at first. But that was alright, because he found me an insufferable braggart and despised me utterly.” His audience would laugh, and James would continue with a revised story of one of their officers’ dinners aboard  _ Erebus _ , featuring a fond recounting of James’ encounter with a Chinese sniper. In this version, Francis still interrupted with a request for a story about the aptly labelled Birdshit Island, but this time it sounded like a humorous jest, not a taunt. The James in this story didn’t feel as James did then: surprised, humiliated, and hotly angry at a miserable Francis, who wouldn’t let anyone else be happy either. 

“I didn’t despise you utterly,” Francis would say later, when they were alone again. James would send him a wry look at which Francis would snort. “Only mostly.” 

“That’s much better, then.” They would laugh together, James taking secret delight in seeing the light amusement in Francis’ face, and wondering what else he could say to keep it there. 

Francis’ laughter would fade, leaving behind only a tenderness that James found himself ever hungry for. “And that changed, James. None of those feelings linger any longer.” 

“I know that, Francis.” 

Francis would smile again. “It doesn’t hurt to be certain.” And James would smile too, and look at the floor, and let the warmth of Francis’ regard finally settle the soft anxious thing inside him. 

 

\---------

 

No version of Carnivale would ever make it into any story James ever told. He knew he should be more willing to speak of it, if only to bear the condemnation he so rightly deserved for such foolishness. At the very least, the families of the men who died that day deserved to know that their sons, husbands, brothers, had died due to James’ incompetent leadership. 

But James knew, deep in the vulnerable, tender core of him, that he was too weak to speak of such a thing. Like a sheltered grub confronted by the blazing sun, he shied away from thoughts of the fire, the men screaming and roasting.  It was not vanity that kept him reticent, for he had no pretensions to that vice anymore, here at the end of all things, but his own shame. No, this was one story his loyal listeners would have to do without.

He could not even discuss it with Francis, the one to whom he could trust all things. The closest they had ever come to speaking of it had been a late night in the wardroom on  _ Erebus _ , a month before they abandoned the ships. Francis had been making an effort to be more present on  _ Erebus _ since his recovery, although he had still been shaky for a few weeks afterward and a tremor lingered in his hands that he couldn’t seem to shake. The two of them had been poring over maps and inventory lists for so long that James felt like his eyes were bound to fall out. Longing for a glass of gin, he’d tried to distract himself by glancing at another inventory, one compiled prior to Carnivale. The one compiled afterward had much lower totals. 

James had almost spoke, went so far as to draw a breath to do so, but his words quailed as soon as he looked at Francis, already looking back. There was a glint of compassion in his eyes, as if he knew the way James’ thoughts had strayed and was ready to meet all of James’ self-recriminations with gentle but firm rejections. James had glanced down awkwardly at the table, uncertain if he had the truth of it or whether it was in his imagination and unable to bear either option. 

Francis had changed since his illness—no, he had been transfigured, as if all his melancholy had burned away in the fire of his fever like so much deadwood. But James wasn’t blind, no matter how much his eyes stung when the sun peeked over the horizon, and he could see how duty weighed on Francis like an anchor. James would not add to that weight if he could help it, not by obliging Francis to listen to his disconsolate ramblings of guilt and shame. 

By the time he had realized, slowly, cautiously, that Francis might welcome such a divulgence, might in fact even relish it, James had lost all ability to say the words.

Save for one thing: if James was every to speak of Carnivale, he would talk of Francis. How his simple presence had made James realize how dangerously awry the celebration had gone, his desperation to stop Stanley from setting the blaze. The measured way they had worked together to save the men, the way he’d kept his head after the blaze burned down, taking roll call, sending the men to their berths, tallying the dead. His steadiness had kept the crew together in the face of such rampant death. 

And his kindness had kept James together when he had felt far more liable to shatter, standing before the Bacchanal ruin he had constructed. Gone were the surly sneers and cutting remarks, lost somewhere in the previous weeks. He had shown James infinite kindness in his glances, in the hand on his shoulder, in his soft instructions for James to return to  _ Erebus _ to sleep, and finally in his understanding that James needed to do something, anything, to fix what he had wrought, even if only to give names to burned corpses lying abandoned in the ice. 

If James was to speak of Carnivale, he would turn to Francis and say  _ I would have been lost without you that night. We all would have been. I shudder to think what would have become of us had you stayed on Terror.  _

And if James was feeling truly brave, he might even press Francis’ hand in his. 

Francis would turn away, James knew, that charming shyness preventing him from taking even that inadequate amount of praise with any grace. Francis was incapable of accepting it yet. 

But maybe one day he could stand to hear it. And maybe on that day, James would be able to able to put down his armor and his reticence long enough to say it. 

 

\---------

 

“We spent hours together, building a road out of that place.” James’ audience would lean in even further, eyes glued to his face as he spoke. “We sat in the wardroom, just as we are now, poring over maps and supply lists while the Arctic winds raged outside like a tempest. Some days the wind blew so violently that I almost thought we would move again, forced onward through the ice.” 

James would go on, building the scene in his listeners’ minds: the ships locked in the inescapable force of the ice, the barren harshness of the outdoors, and two stubborn Captains in an equally obstinately cold wardroom, conspiring together to save their crew’s lives. 

There were so many directions that James could take his story now. He could tell them of a momentous occasion, something that impacted the expedition and made their survival all the more miraculous, such as their conversation about the poisoned tins or the painful days and nights it had taken them to form their strategy to abandon the ships. He could dwell on that particular story, painting for his audience the anguish it brought Francis to leave his dear  _ Terror _ and listen in turn to their murmurs about the admirable Captain Crozier, who loved his ship so dearly and left her anyway to save his men. 

Or he could turn in more intimate directions and tell of the quiet moments between himself and Francis, the moments that helped build their friendship. Moments like the first time James had made Francis honestly laugh out of good humor, how he’d been so startled by that fact and so taken in by the laugh lines around Francis’ eyes and the gap between his teeth that he’d entirely forgotten the joke he’d just made. Or maybe he would gift his listeners with the story of the time he and Francis were so wound up in their conversation together that when it came time for Francis to return to  _ Terror _ for the night, James had donned his slops alongside him without thinking and accompanied him across the ice to the ship before realizing that he had essentially walked Francis home like an eligible young woman he was courting. The stray thought stayed with him on the long walk back to  _ Erebus _ , making him blush so persistently even against the cold until he thought the heat in his face from his embarrassment and eagerness might be put to better use melting the ice. 

Out of the two options, James preferred to linger on the latter, although there were elements of both stories that would need to be eliminated or changed before he could impart it to an audience, even one that only existed within his own mind. 

Regardless of which direction he chose to follow, the ending remained the same: the ships were abandoned and the men began the great walk out. The storylines became even more tightly intertwined, the momentous and the quietly momentous, as they hauled side by side and set up and tore down camp after camp. He could speak of the hours they spent hauling, Francis always just within the corner of James’ eye. Or the many evenings when Francis had come to James’ tent claiming sleep had abandoned him and talk softly with James, oftentimes about inconsequential things, until he drifted off. 

“It was a comfort,” James would say to Francis now, his audience fading conveniently away to the background and deaf to James until he so chose, “a comfort to drift off knowing you were there and would be there in the morning. You were a constant, like the sledging.” James would say the last teasingly, hoping for a laugh.

Francis would snort inelegantly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling in a distinctly ungentlemanly way that always thrilled James. “I would hope I was a little more welcome than that.”

“You were. You are.” And Francis would look away, uncertain how to respond, and James would change the subject, uncertain how to continue that line of conversation. 

Maybe James would tell it all, consequences be damned, bare their story entirely to his audience. Here, in his imagination, they would view it in the same way he did: a glorious campaign, not for Queen and empire, but for each other and the lives in their care. He would not speak of it as he had his time in China or his overland expeditions, not in the language of conquest and defeat, but as something better, something not glimpsed in history books or in the tales of mythic heroes in bygone eras. A story of determination, perseverance, and understanding found in the unlikeliest of places, in the unlikeliest of people: at the end of the world, in the eyes of an enemy he now called friend. 

“I think that’s when I fell in love with you,” James would say, later, after his audience had left and he and Francis were alone again, ensconced in a nameless room so much like the wardrooms of their former homes. “I didn’t know it then, but I do now.” 

And Francis would look at him tenderly, his eyes dark in the candlelight but no less warm. Here, in James’ mind, he didn’t need to speak. He already knew everything Francis would say, because it was everything James wanted to hear. 

 

\---------

 

Something that would never be in their story, because it never happened: 

They arrived back in England to a massive public outpouring, to endless parties and fetes in their honour. As the two surviving Captains, James and Francis were expected to attend every one, donning the dress uniforms that hung awkwardly on their still gaunt frames and smiling through gritted teeth at every gauche comment and tactless question. 

“Do you remember the last time we were at one of these?” James whispered to Francis at the first in a long line of galas. 

“Unfortunately.” Francis’ eyes were darting around the room, and his brow was set in deep, familiar furrows. He looked anxious, in the same way he’d looked in Terror Camp whenever he thought James wasn’t watching. 

“I think you might actually have been more cheerful at the last one, as impossible as that seems,” James said, wanting to see Francis smile, if only for James’ sake. 

Francis’ lips quirked up for a moment, but that was all. He glanced to his right and his eyes widened marginally. James followed his gaze and saw Barrow the younger approaching at a rapid clip, obviously intent on speaking with them. 

James felt abruptly hounded and knew by Francis’ frown he felt the same. So James pretended he hadn’t seen Barrow and turned back to Francis. “Dance with me.” 

Francis recoiled, staring up at James with such a flabbergasted expression that James almost laughed. “What?” 

“Dance with me,” James said again, offering his hand. He stopped short of a dramatic bow only because he knew that it would make Francis beat a swift retreat. 

“You’re mad,” Francis said, but he put his hand in James’ nonetheless. It was warm and rough from years on wild, frozen seas and one of the dearest things in the world to James. 

James pulled Francis to the dance floor and into his arms with ease and, because this only ever happened in James’ mind, there were no murmurs in the crowd about the many women waiting patiently to dance with the handsome Naval officers assembled in the hall. All there was was the music and Francis, warm and whole and safe in his arms as if he was always meant to be there. 

They swayed around the dance floor with the other couples and James lost himself in the beauty of the moment. And when the dance ended and James stepped back, Francis was smiling fondly, wide enough that the gap in his teeth was showing. It was a moment that James would have remembered for the rest of his life.

 

\---------

 

If James was to tell the story of himself and Francis, honestly, as he could tell it to no person living, he would say: 

He had never met anyone quite like Francis. At first he had vexed him, then he had enraged him, and slowly, so slowly James had not noticed until he was a part of the foundation of James’ life, he had become essential. The first thing James looked to in the morning, the last thing James wanted to see every night. His lodestone, his North Star. James no longer knew who he was without Francis, only knew that that man was the poorer for it. 

They would not have a story that would go down in history, either as great sailors and commanders of men or as great fated lovers such as Helen and Paris or warriors like Achilles and Patroclus or even as fast and loyal friends like David and Jonathan, Hamlet and Horatio. In a past life, the thought of that, his memory fading with time, would have been ghastly to James. But he didn’t need it now. He didn’t need his audiences, his fetes and ballrooms and his endless tales. He would live on in the memory of one man and one man alone. 

And he would be content with that, in this life and the next. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> kaledanvers.tumblr.com


End file.
